


Bit different from my day

by Northerlywind



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Crossover, Gen, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northerlywind/pseuds/Northerlywind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John meet during The Year That Never Was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bit different from my day

John lurched out of his bed, breathing quickly. He blinked in the dim light, until the visions faded away to the shabby walls of his bedsit. He took deep, shuddering breaths, until his heart calmed and he was himself again. The screams and sirens slowly died away as the ache in his shoulder grew more insistent. He closed his eyes and turned his head, falling back into an uneasy slumber.

The laptop thrummed as it turned on, casting an eerie light through the room. He waited, staring intently at nothing in particular, his hand unobtrusively, obnoxiously trembling by his side. He sat in his hand and watched the page load up. Harold Saxon for prime minister. Click. Harriet Jones overthrown. Click. Change is at hand, new prime minister. Click. Click. Click.

Then: The Personal Blog of John H. Watson. He clenched and unclenched his fist, poised over the keyboard, and tried to ignore how his left hand shook. John brought down his hands, stared at the blinking cursor.

Exactly 59 minutes later, he managed to write: nothing happens to me.

The meeting with his therapist was brisk, annoying; John tried to look anywhere but right in front of him. He thought back to Afghanistan, to his men, his patients, all those who placed so much hope in him. Now here he was.

John managed two syllables over the entire session: I’m fine. And he was. There was nothing the matter at all.

John made his way through the park, his teeth clenched, his head down. He avoided eye contact and tried to walk as fast as possible. John, at this moment in time, could not handle any conversation whatsoever. Then he heard his name. He turned, giving short, clipped, automated answers. His mind registered nothing, and his only wish was to be back to the familiar dreariness of his bedsit.

Two hours later, he heard: Afghanistan or Iraq?

John sat in front of the telly, sipping his tea. He took up the remote and changed the channel. Connie Prince. Beside him, Mrs Hudson was happily chattering about various bits of gossip.

“You know, dear, I heard from Mrs Turner next door, you know, the one with the married ones, that there’s a bit of a scandal in Parliament. Oh, that Harold Saxon is a good-looking chap, isn’t he? And his wife is so young, so pretty. You know, dear, I used to look like that, back in the day. Anyway, I heard that- oh, what was I saying?”

“You mentioned something about a scandal?”

“Oh, yes, A Scandal in Downing Street, that’s what the papers are calling it. A shame, a real shame… Something about corruptions, I think. I don’t know, dear, all this trouble.”

“Right…”

“John. I think I figured out something,” said Sherlock urgently, whispering.

John looked up from the paper in his hands. Sherlock looked genuinely worried and, perhaps, frightened. It was shocking to see his face, usually impassive, stricken with emotion. John put down the paper.

“The prime minister,” Sherlock continued. “I…” He looked uncomfortable, and he paced the length of the room before sitting on the sofa. “You won’t believe me when I say this, John.”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I- you just have to trust me. The prime minister. I think he’s not…”

“Not what?” said John with a hint of impatience. Sherlock’s deliberately vague words were getting to him, and now he was starting to feel worried as well. He sat up straighter. “Tell me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock paused, flicking his eyes to the window and the door before continuing. “Harold Saxon is not human,” he said quickly, “He is a timelord. I’ve done research. There’s a man called The Doctor who’s also a timelord; there’s been numerous reports over the years, sightings all over the world, across time and- and space.” Sherlock stopped short at the sight of John’s expression.

“You- you can’t be serious,” replied John.

Trust issues.

No. Sherlock must be mad. Time lord? That was ridiculous. Sherlock, on the other hand, was looking at John quite seriously. “I don’t believe it,” John said. “I- you’re joking. You must be. Time-” John cut himself off. He looked at Sherlock, who looked wounded. Betrayal flashed across Sherlock’s features, and he stood up, long limbs raising him imposingly over John.

“If you don’t believe me,” Sherlock said stiffly, “I don’t think we can continue our correspondence any longer.” For a moment, he softened. “John, we have to leave the country. It’s dangerous. Soon Harold Saxon will take over the world, starting with England. It’s the only way. John, please.”

John stared at Sherlock, then looked down. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I…”

Sherlock turned away. “Mycroft will be around with a car in three hours. You have to make the choice. Moriarty is nothing in the grand scheme of things anymore.” He looked back at John, quickly. “Harold Saxon has a thousandfold the power of Moriarty, and is so much more dangerous. The whole world, John, up in flames. Come with me to Switzerland. We’ll be safe for the time being.” Sherlock looked at John, who made no response, then swallowed. “Three hours.” Sherlock walked out the door.

John regretted his decision every day for the rest of his life. That is, precisely 72 days. But before that, so much more terror plagues him. When Lestrade was the first to die, sacrificing himself to save the rest. When there were 32 people crowded into Baker St, occupying every single bit of floor space. When Mrs Hudson had a heart attack, and no one could save her, not even John. When everyone grew thinner and thinner and the food rations dwindled to nothing. So, when it was time for John to die, he is only filled with remorse. He manages to choke out one last word before John Watson is gone from the world forever: Sherlock.

Eight days after, a man formerly by the name Sherlock Holmes entered the laboratory of Professor Docherty. His hair was wild: black curls twisted around the sides of his face and trickled past his ear. His eyes were blue, and tinged with melancholy. He slipped into the shadows and simply observed.

“Martha Jones?”

She turned around, looking at the man whom she had seen before, but had never truly noticed. A small smile played on her lips, despite everything, and she glanced quizzically at the man before her. “Yes?”

Formerly-Sherlock-Holmes brushed a curl behind his ear. “Did you ever meet…” he said hesitantly, “In your travels… A man named John Watson?” He spoke faster now. “Army doctor, dishwater-coloured hair… Baker Street, London.”

Martha’s face lit up with recognition. “Yes, I remember him,” she said, smiling sadly. “He-” She stopped talking, suddenly.

He looked at her, realizing what she was about to say before she said it.

“He died. The day before I left London for other places. John Watson…” she trailed off, remembering. “He was wonderful.”

“He was mine.”

Martha looked at him, sadness etched across her features, and he couldn’t handle it anymore.

He started to walk away, his strides heavy, his heart heavier.

“Who are you?” she called out, before he slipped around the corner.

He turned around, looking straight through her. “I used to be Sherlock Holmes, of 221B Baker St.” He walked away, without glancing back.

The next time Martha saw him was a long time after, on the Valiant.

Eight days after, or one year ago, Sherlock Holmes walked around the laboratory of St Bart’s. An eyedropper lay beside him, microscope switched to high power, sample sat in a Petri dish. Everything had to be just right. He straightened, picked up the eyedropper, and leaned in.

The door opened.

“Bit different from my day…”

Sherlock smiled.


End file.
